


Cloudy With a Chance of Stupid

by zovinar



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Animated Universe, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: (technically) Time Travel, Chaos, Crossover, Ensemble Cast, Gen, Gratuitous Use of Hypertime, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Sibling Rivalry, Team as Family, additional tags as work develops into an Actual Thing, batfam, psychological warfare for fun and profit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-01 08:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12700827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zovinar/pseuds/zovinar
Summary: Normally, unidentifiable kids in capes don’t just drop out of nowhere into super secret superhero hideouts.Normally,spontaneously appearing people of questionable origin don’t show up wearing an insignia that belongs to someone else currently in the room. Normally, they aren’t bleeding all over the damn floor.Nothing about this is normal, except the fact that it isn’t.





	1. Like a Bolt From the Blue

**Author's Note:**

> post-invasion/S02 but still having the team based in mount justice because [hypertime](https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vQKIrdPg-e5tbZr-eo4i-2iG_dOnX4PtYHu7SXN0tkTxeCJkHK3FiGxb4Cza5sPI1dW9jPzkQvfXu39/pub), roll with it people. also by post-invasion I mean just about right after it—everyone is mostly eased out of their initial shock but they’re still messed up and the trauma’s starting to set in.

 

Searing pain. Ethereal lights. Dissolving, rushing, flowing, burning—

He slams down onto a stone floor. It hurts like a bitch.

Getting smashed into any hard surface at a high velocity is bad enough to begin with—even with the padding of his suit, the shock absorbers can only do so much—but here it also jostles his injuries and, you know, the two daggers that are still sticking out of his abdominal cavity.

“I don’t care what Prince says, I’m eviscerating Circe when I get back,” he mumbles under his breath, lightly coughing up blood. Ugh, gross. At least he fell onto his side, shoulder taking the brunt of it. Landing face down probably would’ve carved out most of his intestines, but it seems he just has to deal with the very likely possibility of exsanguination. How nice.

One of the lenses in his mask is damaged: the data readouts flashing nauseatingly, incomprehensible and obscuring his sight. If he could reach up, there’s an external switch to disable the visual feed, but he can’t, so whatever. And it’s not like he can really focus on anything right now anyway, blurred colors and shapes are all he can make out. Barely.

Something, some figure, shifts in a familiar way, presence somehow reassuring as the form grows, stretches, reaches towards him—? Oh god, that fool.

“Don’t touch the knives,” he slurs, static edging into his vision. “Try and rein in your inherent stupidity, Batman, we’ve discussed this.”

Grayson is such an idiot.

Damian blacks out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: this does start p serious but will devolve into chaos and jokes—because I’m me.


	2. Cloudburst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not shitting on the team, I swear. I’m just expressing the fact that the fuckery that is nigh ubiquitous for the batfam can be legitimately upsetting and messed up from the team’s point of view.

 

He’d _just_ been here to talk to Tim, he knows most the others are still too upset to be able to deal with seeing him, he _knows_ it. Dick understands—hell, Dick’s _dealt_ with it before, Bruce can be an _ass_ and this kind of thing can wear away at any relationship. Still, it wasn’t the reason he’d left, that he’d quit Robin (Bruce had just about permanently benched him, practically _fired_ him, so he’s not allowed to be mad about it).

The team trusted Dick, trusted his word, that he was being honest with them—but in the end, when they found out that he’d lied, they stopped trusting his intentions. For them, trust means truth. Which is…yeah, he gets it, alright?

It’s fair.

They’re all good kids: they fight for what they think is right, never compromising on their beliefs. They’re heroes with valor and integrity, strong in their own right, worthy of the titles they bear.

That doesn’t mean they’re suited for covert missions and he’s _always_ known it. From the very beginning, even if their powers are perfect for it, even if they can be stealthy, the type of work that he and the Bats do in Gotham? It’s _hard_ in a different way, they don’t run the gauntlet because it’s easy.

On top of everything else, all of the fallout, all the damage to repair, Wally, _everything_ , leading a team that doesn’t trust his intent…he can’t. Not now.

So he’d just showed up at the mountain to talk over some data for the Falcone case Tim’s been working on. Briefing room, tucked in a corner, just the two of them and some holos as they crunch some numbers. _Just_ passing through, no need to upset anyone.

As usual, nothing goes according to plan at all, whatsoever, at any point in time.

Dick jerks away from the knives. _Circe,_ the kid’d said— Shit. _Shit._

Blood is starting to puddle on the floor and Tim is immediately at his side. They’re Bats: general confusion, panic, or unrelated questions of any sort are ruthlessly suppressed until no one is actively dying, it’s literally standard procedure. Together, the two of them carefully pull the kid onto his back, giving them a better view of the bloody, torn up mess that is his chest as well as—

Tim sucks in a sharp breath. “Is that…?”

There are slight differences, bold instead of sharp, an actual patch instead of a decal, but that is definitely a Robin R on his vest. He’s _Robin._

He’s still very obviously Not Tim. Or Dick; or even Jason, for that matter so—

“The intruder alarm?”

“The daggers, they’re probably generating some type of distortion field.”

Tim leans in over the boy’s face as he pulls out a packet of sterilizing wipes. “Nightwing, I think one of his lenses is cracked.”

“See if they have the same mechanism as ours. If you can lift the lenses, check for a concussion.” Dick tugs a pair of protective gloves from a hidden compartment, the ones that let them handle just about anything. “Remind Batman to get you a pair of these. You’ll need them eventually, especially if you stay with the team.”

“Yeah?” Tim asks, pressing his fingers along the boy’s mask.

Dick snorts as he gently reaches for the blades. “Gotham is shit,” he prods carefully where they meet skin, checking the depth and angle, “even without too many metas, we deal with triple our quota of weirdness. And then when we bother to _leave_ …”

“Ra’s always does make things worse.”

They’d normally try and not pull out the knives before treating the other wounds, but nothing about this is normal and the daggers are too dangerous to try and work around. Not to mention all the other stab wounds that need attention.

“Nightwing,” Tim says in an undertone, sober as he shines a penlight in the kid’s eyes, “he said…”

“I know.” The kid’d been barely coherent and delirious or blinded enough by the damage to his lenses to the point of not being able to clearly identify someone two feet away in a bright room, but still seemed to recognize him enough to relax, stop forcing himself to be conscious, and warn them of a potentially dangerous artifact. And then he’d called Dick _Batman._ “I _know_. Later, it’ll have to wait.”

Dick pulls back the layers of the boy’s vest (kevlar micro weave, ceramic armored plates, padding, insulators, thin slips of metal stitched into the seams) before reaching through to the black bodysuit, peeling the edges away from the wounds carefully, seeing if—ah, there. “Quick-seal layer.” He grasps the knives, tugging a glove back over each blade as he eases them out, sealing the openings to create a protective sleeve for each. “Robin, cautery.”

Tim presses the device into his hand and Dick flips it around, waiting for the device to warm up before drawing the superheated tip along the cuts in the kid’s suit. The outer waterproof coating burns away, as it should, while the lining of the suit melts and conforms to the various wounds, cauterizing and protecting the edges of the wound without doing too much damage. The biodegradable seal will break down in a few days; if they’ll need to cut it off before that, then the injury is bad enough that they’d have to do it anyway.

As expected, alarms start to blare as soon as the blades clear skin and are cordoned off. Which is good because they could use some extra hands? But bad because Dick’s in no mood to deal with petulantly pissed off people while in the middle of a major medical crisis.

“OhmygodNightwingthatsalotofblood—”

“Bart.”

“WaitTimisthata _Robin_ symbolwho—”

“ _Bart_ ,” Dick snaps, “get a blood-loss medkit _now_.”

“Can’t we just bring him to the medbay?” Bart avoids getting yelled at by flashing back with the kit before he asks. Also, by not freaking out and focusing on the important things, though he has been one of the least upset at Dick in the first place. “Huh, hey whatarethosekinfethings.”

“Magical artifacts, don’t touch.” Tim’s voice is firm as he pops open the kit, pulling out one of the specialty scissors for reinforced costumes. Quickly, he cuts across then up the inner arm of the kid’s suit, uncovering the crook of his elbow as much as possible around the green gauntlet.

“Can I…?”

“No, the suit is probably trapped.” Dick frowns as he checks one of the higher stab wounds then grabs a suture set.

“Booby-trapped?”

“If he’s a Robin, we might have to wait for him to wake up to get him out of it entirely.”

“Seriously? Your suits are booby-trapped toothatskindaparanoid.”

Tim tugs Bart over. “Yes, it is: hands off the belt. Help me set up and IV and transfusion bag instead.”

“We need to comm Wonder Woman.” Finished sewing the kid up, Dick starts patting him down, pressing into each joint, checking for any other injuries. So far, one of his ribs had been cracked, which had prevented the use of the quick-seal, hence the stitches. “Circe is her wheelhouse and we need to know if there’s any magical contamination or side effects that need to be accounted for.”

“Right, Cassie can—”

_“Robin?”_

Oh no, here it comes.

“Nightwing!? The _fuck_ do you think—”

He can hear the rest of the team rushing in, jostling and yelling and—

“You said you wouldn’t—”

 _“How did he get in—_ ”

“Do you think we’d actually—”

“What’s—”

— _Dick doesn’t have time for this right now_. He gets it, alright? He  _really, really does_ , but there’s a kid lying in a puddle of his own blood in the middle of the fucking floor, don’t they have  _eyes?_

“Who the hell—”

His head whips around, snarling at them in his Blüdhaven growl, his Gotham voice, the one he’s never used around them, never  _had_ to use around them.

“Someone stabbed him sixteen times with Circe’s enchanted daggers. _Get. Diana.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mama bear canary has nothing on aggressively overprotective bats, especially big bro nightwing. like, damn.


	3. Scattered Showers

 

“…”

“…you certain?”

“…saw the tapes…”

“Hm.”

Father?

“… _sixteen_ ……”

“…physical trauma alone……”

“…here……for the best.”

“…”

“…safe…”

Grayson.

…

 

* * *

 

“…”

“…we sleep………you sure…trust him?”

“……a _Robin_ thing……body language…thought Batman was there and……”

“…can’t just tell from the way someone moves.”

“Cain can,” Damian rasps.

“Oh shi—! You’re awake?”

“No.”

“Huh—?”

…

 

* * *

  
“…”

“……shouldn’t…”

“…him to be coherent……”

“…that painful…”

“It’s more important that……suit…the traps…”

“…can’t be serious, if……need to _up_ them…”

“Don’t.” Everyone in the cave knows he’d rather suffer the pain than be this drug-addled—the rest of them are the same, with Drake being the worst of them. Pennyworth has a chart.

Silence, a Grayson silence.

“We’ll reduce the dosage.”

“Mm,” affirms Damian.

“You…!”

“…”

…

 

* * *

  
“…he’s back.”

“Good, we…”

“Ugh,” everything hurts more and he’s coherent enough to feel it. Excellent, Grayson pulled through. He hates having his mind feel like syrup.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Ha ha, “f’k off, Dr’ke.”

“Wh—”

 _“Names._ ”

Whatever, he’s…

“Hey kid, stay with…”

_Ugh._

…

 

* * *

 

“There you are.”

“Nightw…like it worked.”

“Sorry……quick stimulant to get you back up…really do need you for this.”

“Tch,” he knows, lying on his belt for this long isn’t that comfortable.

“Yeah, yeah. We need you to help remove your suit, we’re not gonna risk it.”

Right, sure. There is no way he’s going to move his arms, too many of his chest and abdominal muscles have been damaged for it to be anything other than _idiotically_ painful. “Can’t.”

“If you just tell us the defense mechanism for each part, we can take care of it. Walk us through it?”

“Mm…” Drake at the least would be acceptably good at it. His shoulder is warm from Grayson’s touch. With luck, a Bat will be the one to strip him, everyone else always gets panicky over his scars; _every_ single time, they should really be used to it by now.

“Okay then, let’s start with your glorified chastity belt.”

“G’rss.”

“Belt, kid?”

“N’rve gas behind kyrp’n’te c’mpartm’nt, t’ser, par’lytic ‘n inner cl’sp.”

“Gotcha. The vest?”

“Tunic. Taser, b’ck ‘ve neck.”

“Boots? Very nice, by the way.”

“Tranq’ ‘n laces.”

“And your gauntlets?”

“—already cut myself on them,” mutters Drake; the blades _are_ there for a reason.

“‘nother t’ser, ‘nner seam.”

“Hm, anything else?”

“Sil’nt ‘larm in b’dy suit.”

“Makes sense, though we probably already triggered that one. Any more?

“Nn.”

“Alrighty then, that’s all we need for now, you can go back—”

“Wait…h’ve a chip.” All of them do, actually. The implanted microchips contain a full medical workup that’re updated every three months or after any major medical intervention. Grayson has always been exactingly meticulous about keeping the records as accurate as possible (and of course Drake is the _worst_ about it) so the charts have his full medical history with any notes necessary for receiving treatment from anyone not tapped into their database— _including_ his preferred maximum dosages for most mentally debilitating pharmaceuticals. Brain fog sucks.

All of the chips are inserted at different points on each of them for security reasons and his is in his— “LL-BK-JT-R,” —left leg, below knee joint, right side.

“Lima-lima-bravo-kilo-juliett-tango-romeo?”

“Yes,” Drake was always quick on the uptake even if he was shit at monitoring his own health, “scan…”

“We’ll find it.”

Good, “you’ll…” need it, god knows Mother made enough of a mess out of his organs.

Grayson’s hand rests on his forehead. “…got this. Sleep, Robin.”

Yes Batman.

…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …tim really is the worst at monitoring his own health.


	4. Radiation Fog

 

This time, Damian actually wakes up: instantly, completely, and taking account of his surroundings, he’s not an amateur.

First: he’s in some… _other_ medical facility. Not this world’s cave, but not somewhere unassociated with it—he can smell the magical-decontaminating antiseptic that Father had synthesized and it seems that no one has even tried to remove his mask, though the lenses have been lifted.

Second, someone has left him a batarang within reach, just brushing his fingertips. Whoever it was had the good sense to realize that having access to at least one of his tools would have him less on edge. Drake, probably. Ugh.

Third. Some _idiot_ won’t stop talking.

“Allen, if you don’t shut the fuck up I’ll be turning my induced nausea in your direction and neither of us will end up happy.”

“Headache?” Grayson chuckles.

“Allergic to _speedster babble_.” He finally opens his eyes to offer up a proper nasty look. Allen’s wounded noise is uncalled for, _Damian’s_ the one who’s being unduly assaulted here. “Where are we?”

Grayson perks up a bit at the question but his smile is wry. “Mount Justice but, sorry kid, I think you’re down the rabbit hole.” Circe’d stabbed him _sixteen times_ while asking him in ancient greek incantation to fuck kindly off, of course he’s somewhere else. Except, it’s not time travel, he’s pretty sure he’s—

“Through the looking glass,” Damian grumbles. Which is just wonderful, exactly what he needed to brighten his week.

“You sure?”

 _Report_  says his mind, so he straightens as much as he is able and runs over the affair in his head before meeting Grayson’s curious gaze. Looking at him, actually _seeing_ him tangibly is absurdly reassuring, even more so than the batarang. Something in his mind just seems to shft and settle, clicking into place and quieting the tense buzzing in the back of his brain.

“Yes, Nightwing, I’m certain it’s an alternate dimension. Though, I’ve probably crossed into a more regressed temporal period,” which technically _isn’t_ time travel, “going by relative ages.”

Contrary to common standard, Grayson does not _freeze_ ; he never has and likely never will. They all wear surprise differently—Father, Drake, and himself are prone to stillness, Todd and Cain are retaliatory, but Brown and Grayson are flinchers, so to speak. Brown grabs whatever’s closest to her, allowing for the so-called “brick” incident (which brings Damian joy to this day), and Grayson… Well, he does his version of it now: chin tucking down and elbows pulling in a barely perceptible motion as his muscles loosen, aborted preparations for a fall.

He looks…aghast?

“No, nope, nonono—”

Ah. Whoops.

“Can’t have—”

“Nightwing.”

“Noooo way, I wouldn’t…”

“ _Nightwing._ ” He knows it must be a shock to meet your Robin from another universe where you were apparently _Batman_ but still.

“I—uh, I need a minute to—oh man, I can’t—”

“Breathe, Nightwing.” Allen looks as if he’s on the edge of a panic attack; Damian tries not to be spitefully satisfied.

“Sorry, I’m really—sorry, I just—I need to step out, this is too much. Oh jeez”

“Understandable,” and unsurprising, if Damian is honest with himself. Grayson never did want to be Batman so much as accept it as due course when there was no better choice. And he hadn’t _meant_ to bring it up, there’s just something in the way a Robin moves around Batman. Grayson would know more than anyone else and Grayson had seen it in him.

“Just…come back?”

Grayson pauses with a hand on the doorframe—if this place had any windows he’d be half out of one by now, grapple at the ready. It’s no wonder the Titans live out of a tower if _he_ had any say in it.

“Right,” his smile is weak but Damian appreciates the effort, “yeah. Can’t leave a little bro hanging, huh?”

“Claiming familial relations already?” Damian rolls his eyes, “my, you’re quite forward.”

Grayson flashes a quick grin with a roll of his shoulders, tension bleeding out of him as he laughs (just as intended). “You’re _Robin_ , little bird. What else would you be?”

“Go jump off a roof, Nightwing.”

“I intend to!”

Augh.

Allen looks especially wrongfooted at Grayson’s cheery departure—seeing him shift from foot-to-foot in superspeed is _weird_. Damian wouldn’t call Grayson’s emotions a mess, but he can still sift through them faster than apparently some speedsters can comprehend.

“Uh…is he…?”

“If you’re about to ask if he _is_ going to go jump off a building, the answer is yes: the tallest one he can find, as soon as reasonably possible. Bonus points for apprehending a criminal in the process.”

He makes a face at that. “Blegh, Bats.”

Um, rude.

“So you’re Damian, right?” Tch, time travelers. “Waitwaitwait don’t glare I’m not gonna let anyone in on your ID! IalreadygotyelledatbyBatmanoverit and it’s SOP to have Bat-level privacy filters up for any Bat-person-sleepy-places, okay? Okay—it’s cool we’re cool.” Ew, speedster word-vomit.

“If your foreknowledge is enough to know, why even bother questioning me?”

“Areyouareyouareyou???”

“…Yes.”

“Crash!” The fuck? Just watching him is starting to give Damian a headache. Is he starting to vibrate? Terrible. “Should I like, go ask Tim about that entire thing? Because it lookedkindaweird and I’m pretty sure—”

“You should go make sure Drake doesn’t have his own crisis in the monitor room then report the matter to Batman yourself.”

Allen whimpers a little. As he should.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok uh, you guys are apparently p thirsty ( ´°꒳°`)ゞ ? like, 1k in three days thirsty, which is a lot of traffic for me. glad to hear you're having fun?


	5. Warm Front

 

“Sorry for running off like that, didn’t get a chance to close up our chat!”

Damian stares, blank-faced and accusatory, at Drake. “You woke me up for this.”

“Excuse me,” Drake grumbles, “ _he_ woke me up for this.”

“Oh c’mon,” Grayson chirps, “it’s only seven!”

“After school, before patrol, _why am I up,_ ” gripes Drake.

Grayson, like the dick he is, assaults them with his cheeriness. “You picked up my call,” he teases.

Drake glares at the holoscreen where they can see Nightwing in all his annoying, sleep-stealing glory. “Stop changing my ringtone.”

“Aw, it wasn’t _that_ bad.”

“It’s 2016! You rickrolled me!”

“Hey, there was this Jeopardy clue the other day and— Oh wait, hold on, bank robbery.” He mutes the call with a wink.

“Christ…” Damian’s impressed, that’s a whole new level of terrible. “Mine usually leaves it at excessive PDA.”

“How is that better?”

“It allows for instant retaliation.”

Drake nods sagely—don’t get mad, get even is one of his core tenants after all.

“Okay back, aw were you two bonding?”

“No.”

“…Maybe?”

 _“No._ ” Damian swears to— “is there any _actual_ reason why you’re bothering me when I’m trying to sleep off sixteen lacerations in the chest and lower abdomen?”

“Anything _important_ ,” Drake adds bitterly.

“Nah, just wanted to know how you knew so fast that it was an alt-universe thing, gotta write it up for B—you were so sure!”

“Take a look at your own goddamn hands and tell me if your fingerstripes have decided to show up.”

“Finger…stripes?”

“You love those fucking things,” Damian mutters under his breath vindictively.

“Wait, no no no, you gotta tell—fingerstripes? That sounds…are they like—?”

“Gaudy, obnoxious, awful, ostentatious eyesores? Yes.” On the other hand, Grayson was expert at using them to distract the eye in the muggy gloom of Gotham and Blüdhaven. It was _so_ annoying.

“You have to draw me a pic later, they sound amazing.”

“You are terrible.”

“You’re right, I’ll go pick up some pencils right now!”

“Wai—Nightwing! They better be at least professional grade!”

“Sure! Ooh, there’s a shop right there, I’m gonna take a look.”

Drake makes a despondent sound. “Nightwing, I don’t—”

“Mm-hmm! Thanks-gotta-go-byeee!”

Drake’s holo shuts down when Grayson ends the call and Damian takes a moment to close his eyes and revel. Blessed fucking silence. On the other hand, Drake sighs, sounding put-upon.

The annoyance of seeing him in a Robin suit is offset by the fact that the outfit resembles more the Red Robin one than Damian’s own. Mainly, the lack of green is oddly comforting, for whatever reason. Maybe it’s because it was his own decision to re-incorporate the color after Drake stripped it during his angsty-teenager phase? Regardless, Damian’s boots are fucking badass and that’s all that matters. They have knives in them. A _lot_ of knives.

“So…what should I call you?”

“If you start with the ‘little robin’ shit that Nightwing’s been doing, I will rip out your spleen.”

Drake just rolls his eyes: even three weeks’ patrol in Gotham leaves one immune to most verbal threats. “I mean, you are shorter than me and from an alternate universe.” Damian isn’t short, he’s built _proportionally_ —all the other Robins were lanky-fuckwits at thirteen, but his body is smart enough to not try and outgrow his broader stature and…

Wait. Alternate Universe. “Fuck, it better’ve been excessive violence and not a panic attack,” he mutters under his breath.

“Huh?”

“My Batman has a tendency towards…extreme overprotectiveness.” Meaning that there was a high probability that Grayson had ended up punching someone in the throat when he’d vanished. Circe, very specifically.

Damian is quite upset he missed that.

“Is it really Nightwing? Your Batman?” He _knew_ Drake’d been watching.

“At times,” Damian chooses his words carefully, Drake’s mental health can sometimes be less resilient than tissue paper. Mentioning Father’s…no. “Even if he was wearing the cowl at the time of my departure, he still primarily works out of Blüdhaven. Still, he is ‘my’ Batman, to that extent.”  

(Grayson had admitted to Damian once that, now that it is only occasional, he barely minds the weight of the extra kevlar at all)

“Should I tell him…?”

“Just stop him from bringing me crayons, Drake.”

He frowns in response. “Names.”

“If we start calling people Robin now, we’ll inevitably end up in a brawl and I’ve spent enough time being lectured for fighting you.”

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to interpret that.”

“You can interpret it by fucking off.”

“Well, that was pretty caustic.”

“Go hack the Pentagon, Drake, if you’re that bored.”

He looks…crushed, even if it is ever so slightly. It’s not triggering the so-called “kicked puppy” feeling so much as being a dick to Colin or too harsh with Jon on a sore point. Grayson says it gives him a “justify myself or I'll feel bad” face.

(The two of them are quite accepting of the behavior if they know why he’s doing it; though Colin doesn’t feel hurt, he gets _pissed_.)

“-tt-” Damian rubs at his temples: headache, someone probably needs to boost his saline drip. “You wearing my mantle is highly irritating and I have yet to fully assimilate this…mess.” It chafes more than he thought, even if he does admit that it isn’t entirely fair to this Drake. “Come back tomorrow and I may not end up yelling at you.”

He gives Damian a searching look, then nods slowly. “Lemme at least adjust your IV before you go back to sleep, you look dehydrated.”

“How astute of you to notice.”

Drake raises a brow them gives him a half shrug as he comes over and attends to the various machines. His fingers are small and careful, lacking the sureness that Damian is used to. It’s…weird.

No one ever really questions Father outside the family and all of the community trusts Grayson to an unimaginably _ridiculous_ degree but Drake is… Drake has very deliberately cultivated a reputation of reliability, deftness, calculation, and, most importantly, the ability to remain coolly collected and logical at all times.

Naturally, this is a lie. His brain is more akin to a supercomputer that is on fire—his reflexive reaction to any unexpected crisis is excessive scheming with maximum stakes involved and he bullshits along with the best of them. But lying is what Drake does best, so the only people who see through the mask are the other Bats (Brown and Cain being the best at it) and, at times, Kent and Allen.

(And Ra’s, but Damian wants to think about his grandfather flirting at Drake as little as he can possibly manage)

So this unsurety is basically really fucking weird.

Drake twitches, the staring is probably starting to get to him. He hesitates before asking carefully, “do you hate me, or something? Back in your world?”

That is…pretty valid. Though his Drake would never ask any question in such a revealing way. “The community has labeled the affair as,” terrifying, “…complicated. I did about three years ago, but I was ten and you were an ass,” Drake raises another brow that Damian _ignores_. “We eventually settled on amiably antagonistic.”

“Um—”

“Besides, the dynamics of sibling rivalry become exponentially changed the more bodies involved.”

“…More?”

“Five at the most conservative count.”

Drake looks aptly horrified. “You can’t tell Nightwing.”

“My ribs are damaged enough as they are.”

“His hugs are practically a lethal weapon,” he concedes.

“Get out of my room, Drake.”

“Names.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’ll tell Nightwing on you.”

“Y—!”

 

* * *

  

It’s hard to imagine how the older members of the team say Nightwing was when he was Robin—even if Nightwing is sunshine and rainbows half the time, it’s just…weird? To think of that next to their quiet Robin. Yeah, he’s good at his job, but Jaime’s seen him smile like, _twice,_ or something.

As such, hearing his laughter drift down the hall from the medical bay is completely unexpected.

Robin ducks out of the beat up not-Robin kid’s room with a giggle, dodging just in time so the tray soars over his head instead, smashing into the far wall at an impressive speed.

“You _suck!”_

“Don’t tear your stitches or you know he’ll come down on you hard.”

This time a batarang comes arcing out of the room to bury itself deep in the wall right next to Robin’s neck. He grins wider.

“Maybe you should calm down.”

“Maybe you should consider not being a SHIT.”

…

Uh, what?

_«The displaced one exhibits an ample amount of martial prowess for one who cannot lift himself from his sleeping apparatus. Recommending a preemptive strike to ensure no future danger.»_

“What, no that’s a _terrible_ idea.”

“Stop shit talking with your back accessory, Reyes!”

Holy fuck.

“Dude! That's not—”

_«He dares—!»_

“Reyes, your _little sister_ is more threatening than you will ever be, don’t even—”

Robin laughs at all of them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damian is pretty comfortable with the bat policy of telling people jack-shit, but he can’t pass up an opportunity to fuck with tim. 
> 
> …or with anyone really. poor jaime.


	6. Diffluence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right so, the yj team is waaay not like the titans at all? they’re more like a task force than a family so uh no batfam IDs for them, they're not in the know so it's all “Robins” and “Nightwings” on their end.

 

“We still don’t know anything about him.”

“Yeah, except that Robin’s acting weird.”

“And Nightwing was here. I mean, I know he’s been stopping by to see Robin and Batgirl, but he usually clears out fast, he—”

“I asked Batgirl and she said it was ‘Robin business,’ what does that even mean?”

“Well, Nightwing did call him Robin. And he was in the suit.”

“They,” M’gann hesitates, reaching up as if to pluck a thought from the air, “I’m not sure why, but they trust him.”

“But do they know anything about him?” Artemis bursts out, “No one does! None of us know anything and even if Nightwing _did_ he wouldn’t tell us!”

“Nightwing told me that he recognized the” Kaldur frowns “… _other_ Robin’s movements, his body language.”

“Nightwing, he…” Karen looks troubled, “he was really shaken.”

“Whatever leads him to trust the boy seems to be unsettling to him as well.” Kaldur is nodding in agreement even as his face twists in confusion.

Cassie shifts from foot to foot. “Robin said he matches protocol enough to—I mean, you saw that the did that thing with his suit, right? And he was hurt real bad.”

Conner doesn’t know anything about the kid, after all, _no one_ seems to outside of Robin, Batgirl, Nightwing, and maybe Bart, and they’re not talking. He thinks maybe Batman showed up at some point? But he can’t be sure, he can never be sure with the Bats. All he knows is that the kid didn’t so much as complain once during his surgery, even when he was awake, and that he has nightmares. Bad ones.

Very bad ones.

“He yells,” Conner cuts in, “at night he yells sometimes.”

M’gann frowns, “I haven’t heard anything.”

Conner grits his teeth, “it’s quiet and he never says any words,” but he sounds like he’s dying.

“Pah!” L’gaan scoffs, “bet it’s more Bat training: can’t let you relax even when you’re asleep!”

“More like, keep yourself safe, even when unconscious.” Robin—where? When did he—? “Or drugged out of your mind on hallucinogens.”

_“Drugged??”_

Robin ignores the rest of the team’s surprise, tilting his head at Conner. “It’s SOP to leave the sound dampening fields down for rooms in the medical ward just in case, but I’ll put them back on, especially if it’s been bothering you.”

“Oh no,” Conner frowns, “it’s…okay, it’s not that much of a bother.”

“No. His nightmares are his own business,” the small smile Robin flashes them is humorless and very fake, “not any concern of yours.”

“But he is getting better, right?” Cassie urges.

“He’s feeling better enough to sass Blue.”

“Dude,” Jaime sounds beyond tired as he shuffles into the room, “he nearly took off your _head_ with a batarang.” Whatever happened, Conner can hear his heart still jumping. “He’s an asshole, I—wait, you like him now? He called you a— _no_ he didn’t mean…”

“What!?” M’gann gasps.

Robin, on the other hand, gives a small, satisfied smile. “See? Much better.”

“And he apparently more afraid of my sister than my scary high tech alien ‘back accessory.’” Jaime shrugs with maximum confusion, “what is _up_ with that anyway?”

“Oh hey, are you guys talkin’ ‘bout D—” Bart’s mouth might be faster than his brain, but his eyes certainly aren’t from the way he pales at Robin’s look “—Robin! The other Robin, the little one whomayormaynotbe— Uh! Nevermind!!!” His voice cracks on the last word.

Robin narrows his eyes. “…Yes.”

“We were talking about how he screams in his _sleep,_ ” Conner growls.

“Uh,” Jaime looks confused, “he’s a Bat? That’s like, a Bat thing, right? Tragic backstory and everything.”

Bart zips between Jaime, Conner, and Robin, patting all their backs consolingly. “Nah, it’s the on-the-job trauma, I’ll bet.” He finger guns at Robin who raises a brow, doing the weird, I’m-wearing-a-mask-but-I-can-still-express-disdain-and-judgement-with-my-face thing that all the Bats do. “Have you guys ever been to Gotham? Like, _been_ , been to Gotham.” Artemis’s expression darkens, grudging acknowledgment flicking across her face.

“Conner,” Robin isn’t looking at any of them, head turned towards the medical ward, “our section of rooms, mine and Nightwing’s and Batgirl’s, they’re soundproofed for a reason.” He finally catches their eyes, “Gotham is…different.”

Bart makes a face, “Y’mean Gotham is _terrible_ , like, the worst place ever.”

“Mm.” Robin’s cape swishes behind him as he makes his way back into the heart of the mountain, heading back to the boy’s room. “We do what we have to.” He casts an eye over his shoulder at them. “Does it actually matter right now? He’s got sixteen holes punched through him and can’t even roll out of bed. I mean, keep an eye on him if you want, but medical treatment isn’t going to be stopped by anyone’s suspicions either way.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hm, I'm tapping tim and cassie’s relationship a bit, too. it’s more like cute teens hanging out and messing around cutely. besides, tim’s a gotham kid: he doesn't have time for _feelings,_ sheesh! 
> 
> you can…I guess fight me on this stuff? I like to chat ‘bout headcanons, hmu.


	7. Cumulus Congestus

 

There…there is a cat sleeping on Damian.

How did it not wake him up? Why hadn’t he reflexively reacted to it? Who let it in here in the first place? Why is he still trying to blink his eyes into focus? Has someone been adding a sedative to his drip? Drake is a dead man.

Well. Drake is probably a dead man—the-most-likely-to-be-dead man. He would’ve known if Grayson had stopped by, Allen is a nosey shit but knows to keep out of Bat matters, Reyes doesn’t seem to want to be in the same room as him even to argue at the moment, and he hasn’t actually seen the rest of the team—though they have been trying to gossip discreetly outside his door. They’ve failed.

Not the problem. Cat. Leg. What.

It’s definitely not Alfred: his cat knows that resting on the upper body is more effective at discouraging movement and ruthlessly takes advantage of the fact, his preference being across Damian’s collarbones (also, Damian left him back on Earth-134, which is a mildly upsetting thought) and he knows that it’s probably not someone’s pet, no responsible pet owner would let one stay in the company of an intruder.

It’s…

Oh.

Oh _hell_ no.

“This is not the proper way to conduct yourself on watch duty, Logan.”

No fucking response. Damian’s surrounded by amateurs, even the Titans and their auxiliary branches are better than this.

He takes a steadying breath—this will suck a bit: his abdominal muscles are still healing—and jerks his knee with a wince, tossing Logan off the bed. Logan yelps as he skids over the edge, clawing at the sheets with a hiss. It doesn’t save him.

He shifts back into human-form, rubbing the back of his head. “What the heck!?”

And Damian stops for a sec, starting because… “holy shit, why are you so little.” Seriously, what?

“What are you talking about?”

“Changeling is a second-generation member of the Titans—Nightwing’s in the first and your current Robin is somewhere in the vicinity of the…fifth? It got complicated,” he grumbles, waving a hand.

_“So?”_

“So then why are you so _little?”_

“I-I’m not little!”

“You’re my height! And I know I’m considered short, Jon won’t _shut up_ about being taller.”

“Yeah well, then who are you to call me small! Wait, who’s that?”

“None of your fucking business, Logan.”

Logan… _pouts_ at him. “You still tossed me off, that was mean!”

“I never remember giving you permission to sleep in my bed.”

“Huh?”

Damian raises a brow. “Forgetting the fact that you don’t know much about me in the first place and wouldn’t know if I was dangerous or not, it’s invasive and rude as shit. How’d you feel if I crawled into your bed?”

“O-oh.” Logan’s face drops at that, realization in his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t think of that.”

At least he fucking admits it, most of the Titans are so cagey about admitting they have no respect for personal space with people who have hair-trigger instincts. “Don’t do it again.” He gives as much as a shrug he can without being in pain, “besides, how do you think the other Bats would have reacted?”

“Um, they’d probably freak.”

“Yeah, if Red Robin hadn’t fucking sedated me, I would’ve probably kicked you off reflexively the second you touched me, dipshit.”

“Red Robin?”

“Your…Robin, I suppose.” Damian looks away, mouth firm. “Is Nightwing here?”

He gets stared at for a second before something seems to click for Logan. “Oh uh,” he wilts, “I think it’s been a few days, don’t think he’s been back since you woke up.”

There’s a story here. He knows Grayson has his duties to attend to in Blüdhaven and such, but for them to keep him from even swinging by at least once? Even Pennyworth had trouble keeping Grayson— _his_ Grayson, Richard—from hovering. Something must have happened.

“There was this invasion thing…” Logan shrugs miserably then continues, subdued, “it was bad. He doesn’t come by much anymore, I think everyone was really surprised he was here at all when you showed up.”

“Well,” Damian huffs a dry laugh, “they’ll have to get over themselves. Knowing Nightwing, he’ll probably be over quite often to keep an eye on me.”

Richard cares about _people,_ not what they think of him. He’s never let much stop him from doing what he wants so Damian will be expecting a visit from this Grayson soon enough.

…He does hope it is soon, Damian really wants those pencils. This place is fucking _boring_.

 

* * *

 

“So?”

Gar tilted he his head as he closed the door behind him. “Dunno Megan, Blue was right, he’s kind of a jerk.”

“Logan, I can _hear you_ —learn vocal modulation.”

“See!”

“Gar, it’s fine. Robin should be here soon, he can watch him.”

“Tell him I’ll knife him in the ribs if he fucks with my IV again!”

“You’re so weird!”

“Gar—”

“Ugghh.” Gar drags his sister away from the ward. He knows she’s been super edgy about the kid, especially after Jaime said that thing about him maybe-maybe not attacking Robin? She’s been suuuuper worried, and the fact that he’s apparently a Bat and mainly only talking _to_ the Bats is not helping after the entire Nightwing…thing.

“He’s just kinda mean? That’s it. And he’s sooo grumpy, though I guess it makes sense: it looked like it hurt when he kicked me off the bed.”

She looks really upset at that, almost like she wants to go back and yell at the kid. “He kicked you off!?”

“Well, he did have a point, I probably shouldn’t’ve been there in the first place.” Gar scuffs a foot on the floor, not meeting her eyes, “he’s right, it was…rude ”

He can feel the warm touch of her mind, skimming through his memories so he pushes the _‘invasive’_ part to the front along with his realization that Nightwing is like, the kid’s Megan? He just kinda misses his big bro. It still doesn’t seem to ease her mind much.

Although _that_ thought reminds him that, “he did say that Nightwing’ll probably be around more. Y’know, to check in on him.”

She flinches, “I…oh.” Megan looks like she doesn’t know how to feel about that—and to be honest, Gar doesn’t either.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gar can't be professional to save his _life_ and damian deff disapproves.

**Author's Note:**

> I really can’t promise an update or anything for this in any reasonable amount of time because I’m posting this as I go, but putting it up here at least doubles the chances of anything happening sooner rather than not. 
> 
> I'm amiable to gossip, come chat me up!


End file.
